Dude, We Don't Have Any Talent
by unsure-author
Summary: One shots of various pairings. Taking requests for pairings and stories The rating of each story is included in the chapter title.


He's all scrap and attitude. His jeans are dirty, and his shoes are scuffed. Craig Tucker is a walking ball of fighter's tension, ready to spring on anyone who dares to give him a reason. Lips, covered in old scars and a new scab, are wrapped around a cigarette, and he's staring down at me. I'm trembling under my skin, but I fight my nerves and keep my calm.

"You want what?" He asks, exhaling hot smoke that wraps around us in a haze. I look around the alley, as if someone is going to jump out from behind the Dumpster and yell, 'Gotcha!'

"I…" The words are dry in my throat and hurt coming out, "I want you." Every inch of my body is covered in sweat, and my hair feels damp and greasy underneath my hood.

"Never pegged you for a faggot, Tweek." Craig growls. I flinch. He flicks the cigarette, narrowly missing my cheek, into a rain puddle where it hisses viciously.

"Never mind that." I whisper. It's not because I'm gay, I think angrily, it's because of what you do to me. Every day since our fight in elementary, I've thought of only him. Sometimes I'm not sure if I want to fuck him or fight him. The only thing I'm sure of is that I need him in some intangible way. Craig ruffles his hair with his hands, and I can see the callused scar tissue on his knuckles. Been punching walls, Tucker?

"Shit, I don't know what to say. Am I supposed to be flattered?" Craig's voice is cold and metallic. It's like the smell of dirty rain on asphalt. "Because I'm not, you little shit."

The air has changed, and suddenly I'm not nervous anymore. The animal instinct is flaring up, and I can feel it. Now I'm not a shuddering mess, not a spastic freak. I'm alive, a ball of teeth and fists and anger. So I step up to him, and I make sure he hears me.

"Good, you shit-eating asshole. Now, are we gonna do this or not?" These aren't things Tweek would say, this isn't me. It's something else, something primal and hot. A mantra in my head: 'fight or fuck, fight or fuck?'

His hand flies to my face before I can even react, and a sharp dagger of fear stabs my stomach. He's faster and stronger than me, and the severity of my situation settles on me like a mourning shroud. My chin is captive in his rough hands, which seemed so much smaller a second ago.

"I'll make you regret that." Craig says, squeezing my face, making me gasp out. He takes the opportunity, covering my mouth with his and shoving his tongue deep into me. Tearing up, I try to shove him off, fear running rampant in my mind. Even as I struggle, my tongue is playing with his, exploring the edges of his teeth and relishing the heat of him. A chuckle, low in his throat, vibrates through my head and pushes back the fear. This is all a game to him, another fight in an alley.

I'm not going to be an easy opponent.

He only has a few inches on me, so it's not hard to shove him right back against the wall and return his advances. Our mouths are so big, trying to devour each other and claim dominance. The harsh clink of our teeth knocking together seems to echo off the walls around us, sounding so loud and good. We're both breathing hard, trying to find air and only finding the heated, damp spaces in ourselves.

He breaks away first. Round one goes to me.

Craig wipes his face with his sweater sleeve and glares at me, as if I was the instigator. "Shit." He says. The scab on his lip has broken open. Then I realize I can taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.

He looks around the alley, and I feel powerful. "We have to get out of here." Craig says.

"No." I reply, pressing myself against him again. Craig shoves me off, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Fucker! I was supposed to be meeting some friends here. We have to go." He grabs my wrist and pulls me down the alley, towards the chain-link fence at the back. I don't know where we're going, but he does.

He's over the fence before I can even tell him I can't climb it. Standing on the other side, his haughty posture is a challenge. "Come and get me, Tweek." He says before turning and running.

My feet are clumsy as I try to scale the fence. He's turned a corner and I can barely hear his footsteps now. Somehow I manage to pulls myself up and over, but on the quick drop down, I rip the back of my hoodie. Cursing, I run after him.

There, he takes a right ahead of me. My breath is foggy in the cold air. It's coming out in ragged gasps. I never exercise.

The scenery flies past me. All I can see is him, running away. His jacket tails flutter around him as he goes, his hat is stuffed in the hood, and the bottoms of his shoes are a dirty grey.

It takes quite some time for me to realize that we've run out of the shopping district. Now we fly over lawns, leap over fences and cut through back yards. My body curses me for this punishment, but my brain urges me onward. I'll claim my reward, I swear it.

And then we're in his back yard, and he's run into the house. The sliding glass door is left open, an invitation. More out of habit than politeness I close it behind me. A small hint of neurosis strikes, and I lock it quickly. I go to the front door and lock it, too. His voice drifts from upstairs.

"Quit fucking around and get up here."

Taking the stairs two at a time, I scrabble at the buttons and zippers and laces and fabric. By the time I get to his room, I'm in my flimsy t-shirt and jeans, still wearing one shoe. Craig's standing there, still fully clothed. He laughs at my disheveled appearance, and I shut him up with a raw kiss.

Our fingers fly, grabbing at everything and nothing.

The shock of skin on skin contact overwhelms me, forcing me to break away from him. Round two goes to you, Tucker. Our shirts are off. He can see my pale skin, and I can see his fighter's frame. Craig reaches out to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me to the bed.

The rules of this game don't make any more sense to me. The lines between fighting for recognition and screwing for screwing's sake blur, and neither of us knows what we're doing here. It amazes me how small the difference between a kiss and a bite can be. How can something this good still hurt?

Craig is slick with sweat when he pulls off my pants, our foreplay more exerting than any spar. My jeans flutter to the floor and join his, pulled off long ago. I pull him close, and a high keening erupts from my chest at the feel of his dick pressed against mine. He snickers in my ear and ruts against me.

"Good, huh?" Craig moans against my neck. Panting and nodding are all I can reciprocate. I'm a fucking mess, trying to force some semblance of disinterest onto my face.

The passion in his movements is reminiscent of a wild animal fighting for survival. The thought, 'Can I survive this?' drifts across my mind as we lose our last shred of cover and are bare to each other.

There's no love in what we're doing. Aggression and hurt are all that exist in Craig's body, there's no room for intimacy. Gasping and moaning, we slide against each other in an agonizing ecstasy.

I push him off and now I'm on top. The bites I deliver to his shoulders are badges of my superiority. The suck marks I leave all over his body are medals for his shame. Then we change positions again, and I'm bitten, I'm sucked.

In the end, after so much thrusting and thirsting and hurting, we're sticky messes on Craig's bed. I look at his tousled hair and smile. I can feel myself drift off, falling asleep in the room of a violent lover yet feeling safe.

TWEEK AND CRAIG SHORT

He's all scrap and attitude. His jeans are dirty, and his shoes are scuffed. Craig Tucker is a walking ball of fighter's tension, ready to spring on anyone who dares to give him a reason. Lips, covered in old scars and a new scab, are wrapped around a cigarette, and he's staring down at me. I'm trembling under my skin, but I fight my nerves and keep my calm.

"You want what?" He asks, exhaling hot smoke that wraps around us in a haze. I look around the alley, as if someone is going to jump out from behind the Dumpster and yell, 'Gotcha!'

"I…" The words are dry in my throat and hurt coming out, "I want you." Every inch of my body is covered in sweat, and my hair feels damp and greasy underneath my hood.

"Never pegged you for a faggot, Tweek." Craig growls. I flinch. He flicks the cigarette, narrowly missing my cheek, into a rain puddle where it hisses viciously.

"Never mind that." I whisper. It's not because I'm gay, I think angrily, it's because of what you do to me. Every day since our fight in elementary, I've thought of only him. Sometimes I'm not sure if I want to fuck him or fight him. The only thing I'm sure of is that I need him in some intangible way. Craig ruffles his hair with his hands, and I can see the callused scar tissue on his knuckles. Been punching walls, Tucker?

"Shit, I don't know what to say. Am I supposed to be flattered?" Craig's voice is cold and metallic. It's like the smell of dirty rain on asphalt. "Because I'm not, you little shit."

The air has changed, and suddenly I'm not nervous anymore. The animal instinct is flaring up, and I can feel it. Now I'm not a shuddering mess, not a spastic freak. I'm alive, a ball of teeth and fists and anger. So I step up to him, and I make sure he hears me.

"Good, you shit-eating asshole. Now, are we gonna do this or not?" These aren't things Tweek would say, this isn't me. It's something else, something primal and hot. A mantra in my head: 'fight or fuck, fight or fuck?'

His hand flies to my face before I can even react, and a sharp dagger of fear stabs my stomach. He's faster and stronger than me, and the severity of my situation settles on me like a mourning shroud. My chin is captive in his rough hands, which seemed so much smaller a second ago.

"I'll make you regret that." Craig says, squeezing my face, making me gasp out. He takes the opportunity, covering my mouth with his and shoving his tongue deep into me. Tearing up, I try to shove him off, fear running rampant in my mind. Even as I struggle, my tongue is playing with his, exploring the edges of his teeth and relishing the heat of him. A chuckle, low in his throat, vibrates through my head and pushes back the fear. This is all a game to him, another fight in an alley.

I'm not going to be an easy opponent.

He only has a few inches on me, so it's not hard to shove him right back against the wall and return his advances. Our mouths are so big, trying to devour each other and claim dominance. The harsh clink of our teeth knocking together seems to echo off the walls around us, sounding so loud and good. We're both breathing hard, trying to find air and only finding the heated, damp spaces in ourselves.

He breaks away first. Round one goes to me.

Craig wipes his face with his sweater sleeve and glares at me, as if I was the instigator. "Shit." He says. The scab on his lip has broken open. Then I realize I can taste the copper of his blood on my tongue.

He looks around the alley, and I feel powerful. "We have to get out of here." Craig says.

"No." I reply, pressing myself against him again. Craig shoves me off, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Fucker! I was supposed to be meeting some friends here. We have to go." He grabs my wrist and pulls me down the alley, towards the chain-link fence at the back. I don't know where we're going, but he does.

He's over the fence before I can even tell him I can't climb it. Standing on the other side, his haughty posture is a challenge. "Come and get me, Tweek." He says before turning and running.

My feet are clumsy as I try to scale the fence. He's turned a corner and I can barely hear his footsteps now. Somehow I manage to pulls myself up and over, but on the quick drop down, I rip the back of my hoodie. Cursing, I run after him.

There, he takes a right ahead of me. My breath is foggy in the cold air. It's coming out in ragged gasps. I never exercise.

The scenery flies past me. All I can see is him, running away. His jacket tails flutter around him as he goes, his hat is stuffed in the hood, and the bottoms of his shoes are a dirty grey.

It takes quite some time for me to realize that we've run out of the shopping district. Now we fly over lawns, leap over fences and cut through back yards. My body curses me for this punishment, but my brain urges me onward. I'll claim my reward, I swear it.

And then we're in his back yard, and he's run into the house. The sliding glass door is left open, an invitation. More out of habit than politeness I close it behind me. A small hint of neurosis strikes, and I lock it quickly. I go to the front door and lock it, too. His voice drifts from upstairs.

"Quit fucking around and get up here."

Taking the stairs two at a time, I scrabble at the buttons and zippers and laces and fabric. By the time I get to his room, I'm in my flimsy t-shirt and jeans, still wearing one shoe. Craig's standing there, still fully clothed. He laughs at my disheveled appearance, and I shut him up with a raw kiss.

Our fingers fly, grabbing at everything and nothing.

The shock of skin on skin contact overwhelms me, forcing me to break away from him. Round two goes to you, Tucker. Our shirts are off. He can see my pale skin, and I can see his fighter's frame. Craig reaches out to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me to the bed.

The rules of this game don't make any more sense to me. The lines between fighting for recognition and screwing for screwing's sake blur, and neither of us knows what we're doing here. It amazes me how small the difference between a kiss and a bite can be. How can something this good still hurt?

Craig is slick with sweat when he pulls off my pants, our foreplay more exerting than any spar. My jeans flutter to the floor and join his, pulled off long ago. I pull him close, and a high keening erupts from my chest at the feel of his dick pressed against mine. He snickers in my ear and ruts against me.

"Good, huh?" Craig moans against my neck. Panting and nodding are all I can reciprocate. I'm a fucking mess, trying to force some semblance of disinterest onto my face.

The passion in his movements is reminiscent of a wild animal fighting for survival. The thought, 'Can I survive this?' drifts across my mind as we lose our last shred of cover and are bare to each other.

There's no love in what we're doing. Aggression and hurt are all that exist in Craig's body, there's no room for intimacy. Gasping and moaning, we slide against each other in an agonizing ecstasy.

I push him off and now I'm on top. The bites I deliver to his shoulders are badges of my superiority. The suck marks I leave all over his body are medals for his shame. Then we change positions again, and I'm bitten, I'm sucked.

In the end, after so much thrusting and thirsting and hurting, we're sticky messes on Craig's bed. I look at his tousled hair and smile. I can feel myself drift off, falling asleep in the room of a violent lover yet feeling safe.

"Who won?" I drowsily ask.

There's no need for clarification. Craig is silent for a minute, before grinning at me.

"…Rematch?"


End file.
